I love this. I have watched it so many times, maybe I account for half the hits for this video. It feels good, and is full of truth, and physics.
I'll dedicate it to my pal Peter G.
I know you have seen it too, but it is a good reminder. Peace and Love....
"Everything is going to be okay", but it isn't. As a chaplain at our hospital, folks will say this in the midst of a health crisis or death. I never understand why. I am a very compassionate person, and I think it is a lie. No, everything is not going to be okay. I have not felt like those silly people who say "everything is going to be okay" until today.
I learned that my friends who teach abroad were hit by a drunk driver in a taxi, injuring most and killing my dear friend's dad, well, he was my friend too. Now my friend is being flown to Dubai to get medical care, with her husband and mother in law, leaving behind the body of a wonderful father. I am sitting by Facebook waiting for updates, calling my friends, and telling myself this very lie, to make the time go by.
Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.
I'm going to have to change my mantra, I know, but for now this little lie is getting me through the moments of uncertainty. It is all I can muster, in terms of hope, during these long hours of unknowing.
The truth is, it is not going to be okay, it is too late for that. It's not even an appropriate response. This tragedy has changed the trajectory of my friends' lives for ever. As time is ticking by, and we numbly and distractedly sit in a place of worry and unknowing, it is not too late to hope.
Sending all my love and hope across two continents, an ocean, and several seas to you Katie, Peter, and Ellen.
I hear people tell stories about their adventures, and then say I should add it to my "bucket list", the list we all should make of things to do, places to go and people to meet before we go for good (kick the bucket). I have found that I rarely know what is on my "bucket list" until after I have experienced it, and have the feeling that my "musts" are not your "musts". I could tell you that everyone should snorkel with sea turtles in Kauai, give birth to a child, and stay up all night by a camp fire singing, but those are things on my list.
I could also tell you to visit Lake Tahoe, California in fall, before it snows, and after all the tourists leave. I go every year and I love it every year. The colors are vibrant, the skies are clear and crisp, the water is so blue there isn't even language to describe it. The Kokanee Salmon are like red ribbons underwater in Taylor creek.
Today we walked through a meadow above the lake, and the ground was yellow with leaves. Fallen logs from last year littered the aspen grove in the meadow, and we balanced from log to log. The only casualty was a few bee stings for my brother in law, and he accidentally provoked them. I added the time to my "bucket list".
I'm not a diva. I sing soprano, and have met dozens of real life, in the flesh divas. In college a diva even wore a Jessica Rabbit dress to rehearsal. I am nothing close to diva. The title is misleading, but I liked the alliteration and the paradox. I'm probably dead center, between diva, and dumpster-diver. Well, except for this morning when I actually was dumpster-diving for moving boxes.
I am no stranger to combing the rodent infested back-side of the local retailers and groceries. I intend to perfect the art/demoralizing predicament while packing up this time, as we move to another house.
The easier approach is to simply buy new boxes, but I am way too thrifty to buy something if I can scrounge. If you ever find yourself having to move, here are some tips, techniques and advise for moving-box-procurement. Enjoy!
Watch the weather. No one likes fishing through rotting cardboard. If it looks like rain, do not delay.
Go early, less people are out shopping before 9am and it is less likely that someone will see you head first in a cardboard only dumpster.
Disregard the expired animal life to the left and right of the cardboard only dumpster. Yesterday there was a mummied bird of prey (just in time for Halloween?).
Bring the stool your children used to reach the sink as toddlers if you are less than 5 foot 6 inches (my height). Your arms are not long enough to reach that choice box just inches from your fingers. You are too scared/smart to jump into a dumpster to get it, after watching too many crime investigation shows on television(when you had television) even if it says cardboard only. Which leads me to...
Do not prop yourself up on the edge of the dumpster like a gymnast on the high bar and hope that you can reach down, resting on your hips, to get a box. While it is true you may reach it, you can NEVER reverse the predicament, and you will fall on your head into the boxes (I have low body-mind connection).
Heist broken down boxes from shoe shops and craft shops. They smell way better. Pizza shops and grocery stores are going to have more stench, and rodents.
Dive into the recycle bin at your local newspaper. Ours puts out all the stacks of misprints and trials into a big bin that anyone can fish through. This morning, I asked a man loading it if there was any extra stacks I could take home to use for my dishes. He looked around sneakily to see if anyone was looking, and then carried a 25 lb. roll of left over, newsprint-less paper to my car. I didn't even have to lift it (that was the only diva bit about the whole morning)!! Shhhh....
Every year the week before Halloween is a troublesome time for me as a mom. I don't want to buy a costume for my kids at Wal-mart. I want them to get creative with a costume and yet have been discouraged by their (okay, mostly my daughter's) unwillingness to be flexible. The mermaid costume I make will not be as ubiquitous and as perfect as a plastic one from a chain store.
In the past several years I have privately vowed not helped them hardly at all with regards to Halloween costumes, only to be disappointed later. I will take them to the good-will thrift shop, and sit in a floral love-seat while they rummage through old t-shirts. I will apply cat and Ang/Avatar make-up. I will not spend hours making them a costume only to have my son wear something else at the last minute in a panic. I am learning how to mother better, not more.
This year is no different. I have been promoting more creative costumes, and brain-storming with them. My daughter will likely be some colorful, whimsical-something-or-other, bemoaning that she does not have a plastic costume from K-mart, and cute as a button! My son this year wants to be a hiker. He thought of this all on his own. I thought it was a great and creative idea.
Today I figured out where he got his idea. My parents are out of town, and I am feeding their new cat. Also, all week we have been collecting hiking stuff from our stash in the closet. Standing inside my parent's house today, we spied the perfect hiking attire. A walking stick by the door and a hat on the hook. My boy grabbed both, ready for Halloween. It turns out he is not only dressing for Halloween as hiker, but also his grandpa!!
Update: The cider is done, the cider is good, the cider is on-tap.
It was a novelty this fall as it was different from brewing beer. There was more labor, peeling and pressing, and less sitting around watching water boil. It was like painting a room, a lot of prep, the the paint went on quickly after we set up. The paint is dry in only a week. With beer there is a really slow start, and then a lot of waiting for the finish line. Also, apple cider is not notorious for bloating like beer.
Last week I heard a whisper in the depths of my mind,
"take the car to the repair shop and have it checked out before you leave on vacation for a week."
I even ran into the man who repairs our 16 year old car, and told him I hoped I didn't have to see him much, other than socially. Now that our car most likely won't ever run again, we will only have to see him socially.
5 miles from my grandparents town in the Sierra Nevadas, the car made a dramatic departure from this life. It went into overdrive, 5,000-7,000 rpms. I put it into neutral, pulled to the side and turned the key to the off position. The car continued it's frenzied demise, though I had turned it off. Smoke was pouring out of the tailpipe, and the engine roared!! Silas said, "everybody out". It did feel like it was going to explode. The kids jumped out and ran away, in a cloud of smoke. I got out and followed them. Silas jumped into the driver's seat and was able to kill the engine (or kill it some more).
We did end up at our destination in a rental car, but only after loading and unloading a week's worth of beach supplies five or more times, from one car to another. From our porch, to our car, to my grandparents trunk, to my uncles's truck, to the rental trunk, to the hotel room. It was an exciting and dramatic beginning to what is supposed to be a relaxing week at the beach.
Our car is cooler than yours, as it is a VW, it get 40-50 miles per gallon, the interior/exterior is in great condition, and it wasn't expensive to purchase. Now we have to think about getting another car, and I just like the old one.
We now need to be able to travel back to our home at the end of the week, but are a bit stuck. At least we are stuck at the beach.
There is 5 gallons of apple cider, fermenting in my bathroom. The yeast won't do their job in the cool garage, as well as they will in the house. I don't want this sticky goodness to overflow in the carpeted closet, so the compromise was the bathroom. If it overflows here, it will run over the side of the tub and onto the carpeted bathroom floor (who carpets bathrooms?). I'm thinking it won't overflow, though it is quite active and alive, it even makes noise!
The stopper in the top is filled with alcohol, and lets the gasses cause by fermentation out, but sugar loving bacteria from getting in. It is pretty nifty and scientific if you ask me. The thing about fermentation is that it does release gas, which I guess is best in the bathroom after all.
Yesterday, our daughter was in the bathroom, and came running to me holding her nose. "Mom!! Did someone puke!?!?!" I'll admit, it does smell like the dorm bathroom my freshman year of college in our bathroom.
I am not sure it is a good sign, or a bad sign, as this is our first attempt at hard cider. Beer doesn't smell bad fermenting. I could open the window a crack, but that would cool the room down and slow fermentation. I could shut the bathroom door, but then I'll walk straight into it, in the dark night.
When my dad is 65, in a few years, his health insurance, which is my health insurance, will pay for his gym membership. I'm guessing the insurance company has calculated the numbers. If you receive Social Security, and work out at a gym, they save money. At first it seems pretty generous.
My suggestion was the health insurance companies in California might be able to pay the bill, in the name of good health, for the State Parks that are closing soon. They could make up the difference. I was quite proud of my genius for about 1/2 second.
Blue Shield of California could pay the bill for the lacking state park funding, or they could pay my hospital bill.
Today we processed the apples we picked from my parents' tree. The apples have been 'sweating' in the garage for a few weeks, which really means they have been getting over-ripe. My parents came over, and it was a family project. We chopped the apples up in our Vita-Mix, and put the mash into a bucket. We rented a press from our local brew supply shop, and spent 4 hours making 7.5 gallons of drink.
After we picked all the fruit, processed it, cleaned the apples, took the compost away, cleaned the floor, cabinets, counter and even my elbow, from all the apple slop and sugar that got everywhere, was it worth it? I'm thinking what you might be thinking, as you can not taste the final product. The second the juice hit your mouth, you would rethink our time and effort. Some (5 gallons) of the juice has champagne yeast in it to ferment into hard cider, and a small amount is just going to be sweet.
It was a lot of time working on a project with people I love, so even if the drink was bitter, the time was sweet.
I volunteer doing spiritual care for the sick, families and staff at our local hospital. It used to be called chaplaincy, but the word has too much hidden behind it. Maybe the word is too religious, when being born, being sick and dying are spiritual not religious.
I found this photo, on the National Geographic page today. It sums up my experience caring for the hearts of people who are coming and going.
It is green, from the heart.
I have to have open hands, a symbol of my open heart and head.
I have to be brave. Not only for the sick, but for the changes this work has caused in me.
I have to be still, and take in what is, when people are suffering. Can I hold space when others are tossed by fear and grief? I open my hands and then yes, I can.
This photo reminds me that I am not alone.
This photo is the answer to my question, "why me?".
With my hands open, I hear the answer, "because you can".
Last weekend I sat with a family, as they said goodbye to their mom and grandma. I sat with a young woman in labor whose baby was born dead. This photo is a comfort for me today.
I have many stories, about visiting sick people. Some tragic, but if you don't think of death as tragic (sometimes it is, but mostly it is not), they are miraculous, affirming, comical and mostly unbelievable! I think I can share a few.
I am ridiculously sensible, and suspect I have little fashion sense. I know what I like, and I wear it. I try to put on my clothes before I can count to five, so that I don't change my mind. I love jeans, polka-dots, stripes, hoodies, bright colors, and square toed shoes. My brother-in-law once asked what the Norman girls might do if square toed shoes go out of fashion, and I was surprised they were fashionable in the first place. He is immeasurably more cool than I am, so I took it as a compliment.
I know what would happen if the clothes I like go out of fashion, I will find more at a thrift shop. Or, I will become a victim of the 'mom jean of the future' phenomenon. For now I'm fortunate that the clothes I wear seem to be found at departments stores, and more importantly, consignment shops. There are certain fashions that I have trouble with, some are: high heels, leggings, scarves, belts (other than for holding up my pants), halter tops, strapless tops, and slacks. If you see me in anything like the aforementioned, you can be sure I will be running to the closet as soon as possible to get into my usual clothes.
While at camp this summer, I only had a few days worth of clothes. I had some for summer weather, which I never wore, and warmer clothing. I wore the same clothes nearly every day out of necessity. I couldn't borrow clothing because everyone we know there is pint-sized, and clothes are very expensive to buy.
One day I came to class to teach my English lesson, and my student, who is 15 was wearing the same clothes as me. The same clothes. Striped blue and white long sleeved shirt, black sweater and jeans. It made me wonder about my choices as a 35 year old stay at home mom. This girl is less than half my age. I could be her mom. Her mom is probably my age. This girl, Simka, and I turned out to be fast friends.
Was she a kid dressing too old for her age, or was I dressing too young for my age? I had to ask myself, am I the pathetic lady trying to be young because I am dressing like an 8 year old? As you can see, I am quite insecure about the things I like, even though I still like them. Am I the lady unknowingly in the 'mom jeans'?
When I arrived home I found my friend Heather and her family. We were so glad to see each other and we are the same age. We happened to be wearing the same clothes. It reminded me that it might be less to do with my age, or my lack of fashion sense that I dress like the people I love without planning it that way. It may be more like fate or fortune. When I see my square feet I am reminded that my sisters also have the same feet, and it makes me feel good. It isn't chance or luck that I am like the people in my life. It seems they influence me inside and out.
I got to the trail-head last week for a jog and realized I had worn flip-flops. Deciding what to do, I spilled the contents of my water bottle onto the floor of the car. I then happily remembered I left my running shoes in the trunk. I debated if I should crawl back in bed because of my bad fortune all before 9am. If you take advirsity as a sign, then you will never exercise. So, I hit the trail for a long run.
At mile 2.5 I passed two ladies who I knew were retired teachers. One, the principal of my elementary school. I passed them saying "Good morning, teachers! Thanks for teaching me to read!". I surprised them with my greeting, and sped by them.
When I turned back I knew I would see them again, so I stopped to properly greet them. What happened next was entirely unexpected, and I was glad I didn't give up on my run.
I told the teachers that it was more precisely Mrs. U who taught me to read with Dick and Jane. I then told them that I did learn to read, and also what it felt like to have my nose in the corner. Mrs. U made me put my nose in the corner when I was six. I am a tender sweet person, and I always have been. I wanted Mrs. U to like me, so I was good. That is about all I remember of her, and the drawings of Dick,Jane, and Spot.
I have lived a charmed life, and have mostly been treated with kindness. Mrs. U was the exception. I didn't realize how tender I was about it, until the retired principal, Carol Judd, was apologizing. She apologized for not being able to protect me from my teacher's cruelty.
I told her it was fine, and I made it through. She told me again, that she was sorry and that it was not my fault. I did nothing to deserve shaming as a six year old. I then told her that it worked out just fine. She then told me that it wasn't fine, and that she had a bad feeling about my teacher. She was never able to do anything, and she was sorry. She did not apologize for my teacher, but for herself. It was personal.
Really, in comparison, to the atrocities that so many people survive, being shamed in the corner is negligible. Though, with her persuasion, I had to give in. The sky above me opened up, and some white light shined in a dark place. It wasn't my fault! She was there the whole time hoping to look after me, just like my mom and dad, just like the teacher next door in room 7.
I felt as if the issue was taken care of before my run. Both my children have been in room 6 for a total of four school years. The teacher in that room now, has recaptured the space for me. Mrs. Judd asked me if I had 'saged' the room, and I thought I had. I think the real sage was Mrs. Judd, 30 years later.
I had two and a half miles back to my car to think about what she said, which for me is a long time. When I was in my early 20's, I saw Good Will Hunting. I think every generation has a coming-of-age story that is meaningful for their time (The Graduate, Garden State, etc.). For me, it was Good Will Hunting. It touched me, and I knew people like Will Hunting. It was like saying I know people who are like the Prodigal Son.
Running back, I realized the story of Good Will, though less so, is about me too (which is why it is so good). I am bit liberated from the trials of growing up. Everyone, no matter the magnitude, needs redemption.
Thank you Mrs. Judd! How do you like them apples?!?!?
Caution!
This clip has that 4 letter word that is used so often now, it nearly isn't a bad word, except I can't say it very well.
Be warned.
Also, it wasn't so dramatic for me, which is why I didn't win an Academy Award.
My dad picks up after shaking the tree
(also my finger, isn't it a cute finger?)
Silas picks next to a bird's nest.
When I was small my parents designed and built a passive solar (which is active now) house, and planted an orchard nearly all themselves (I picked up wayward nails). Today we six picked a bounty of apples, pears, grapes and plumbs. I'd like to thank my Papa and Mom for feeding us kids and grandkids for more than 30 years.
Now we I have a lot of work ahead. I think we will cook some, and press some. Next week I rented an apple press so that we can make cider, hard and sweet!
I can remember few events from when I was very small. One is when my 2nd sister was born when I was three, and I remember a trip to the dairy farm my uncle Herb managed near Fresno, California.
My Grandma Foth took me in her green Chevy Nova. At least, that is the kind of car it was in my memory. The kind that had 2 doors and a triangle window too high to see out of if you are a pre-schooler in the back.
This is where the story gets a bit gruesome and why it is memorable for me. I stretched up to see the farm as we pulled in. Before I saw the milking barn, or a cow, I saw a man carrying a dead, newborn cow. He walked with it to a pile of more dead baby cows and dropped it. They were black and white. We then visited my uncle and saw the milking barn and my memory fades after that for about six years.
In my mind all the colors were clear, the green car, the black and white cow, the color of the dirt road. I wasn't scared. I wasn't repulsed. I think because I was so little, I remember how I feel, and it was more than a feeling. The world was so big to me, and confusing. I saw that there is something mysterious about death, and birth, and a farm. I don't think developmentally I was able to judge the event. It just was, but it was formative.
As an adult, when I see cows, and surprisingly enough I see them, that day at the beginning of my story has shaped how I think about cows. I know it is silly. I have no profound feelings or thoughts about cats, dogs, deer or raccoon, all of which I have seen dead by the roadside. With cows, I see how nearly soul-less, soft and dim they are, and it touches me.
This summer in the Czech Republic, we went to get milk for the week. We walked to the edge of town and met a Czech woman, selling milk. Her milk tasted like milk. If you buy milk at the grocery store, and that is the only milk you have had, then you do not know what milk tastes like.
The kids enjoyed seeing something new, and the woman was proud to show us her farm. It was clean and the smell reminded me of the story I just told you.
For about five minutes last week my kids forgot they are brother and sister, and were friends. I had a camera. It reminds me that they will not be bickering in the back seat of the car forever, just about 5 more years.
I have two friend in the Czech Republic who, as you can see, are very much in love. They love each other in a way that is bigger than themselves. They love each other in a way that makes people wish they were loved as much as Petr and Ida love each other. I have had the pleasure of knowing both of them before they were in love, and watching their love and faith grow. Just last month they welcomed a baby girl into their family. More love to go around. This story, though, is not about love as much as it is about food.
Petr & Ida
So much culture revolves around food as well as language. We have to eat and we love to eat together. It was around a table with my husband Silas and friend P.R., that Ida told a story about food. I'll tell the story using my best language skills.
Ida, who is Czech and speaks wonderful English as a second language, was telling an embarrassing story, in English. A few days before, at a table full of people, she began to touch Petr's food. She had been missing touching his food because we had been at camp for several days. She had not been able to touch his food while at camp. (At this point in the story my mind is going crazy. Is it a difference in culture that touching other's food is a sign of marital bliss? Is this a language problem? Does she mean she likes to cook his food? I just sat at the table listening as if the story made perfect sense, but it didn't)
While eating dinner the other night, she began to touch what she thought was Petr's food. Finally after a while of this "food-touching" another man at the table questions, "who is touching my food?" (at this point I was able to eliminate some of my previous questions, okay, all of my questions. I was on the wrong track completely, the story made no sense at all, and people in the Czech Republic have the quirkiest traditions)
She went on to explain how embarrassed she was to be touching someone's food, which was not her husband's. I imagined her hands covered with universal brown sauce from the plate to her right, when she meant to be dipping her fingers in the sause and meat to the left. Whoops?!
Being confused is something you have to get used to while visiting a place where their language isn't your language. We just listened to the story, like it was no big deal.
After her story would have been the time for us to sympathise with her utter embarrassment. We didn't. No one nervously laughed with compassion. I was both completely embarrassed for her and her story and completely confused.
Finally someone poked a bit farther into the story to make some sense of it. It was a language problem, or, it was an accent problem. While we thought Ida was saying "food" the whole story, she was actually saying "FOOT"!!!!! Ah-ha!!! As the reader, you probably saw that coming the whole time you were reading. After a week of exhausting youth camp, and jet lag, and the story being told near mid-night, all I heard was "food".
I think it is a way better story if you use the word "food", but Ida was touching Petr's foot, not his food. I think she does touch his food when she cooks it, but it is not a Czech custom to finger your spouse's goulash.
Our girl had $6 burning a hole in her pocket. Last night she tried to buy everyone a scoop of ice cream with it after we played tennis. It was in her pocket at school today because she wore the same shorts (yes it's okay) and because we didn't let her buy the ice cream, we bought it.
Today when I picked her up, she was full of, well, whatever it is that makes her radiate. She told me that she found her $6 in her pocket and also saw the farm stand was open at her school. During recess, she picked out all the veggies she thought I might like and put them into her backpack (you know mom, that purple one). She then donated $6 to the collection.
She wanted to show me the food while we were driving home, which really just turned out to be a life lesson for her: never put ripe tomatoes in your backpack with an eggplant (don't worry I had a towel).
I felt proud that my girl would want to buy me vegetables, I felt known by my daughter. I also felt mad at myself. Last night I assumed that she wanted to spend her money so that she could have something sweet. Really, she wanted to spend her money to be sweet.
